Having completed these security measures, the Coyote walked near the fire, pulling off his cap and hanging it on a peg as he went. Helga noted the Coyote’s ears were painted and notched in a style she had never seen before. What it signified she could not guess and gave it no further thought as the Coyote began to speak.
Using a long-handled ladle, he filled several iron mugs with the bubbling brew from the copper pot. Dropping a spoon of honey into each mug, and sprinkling some crumbled, dried herbs on top of each one, he handed the mugs around.
“Borallt welcomes you to his humble lodge. I was not expecting such grand company so I have only a little Plenty Toot Wheeze prepared and only a few mugs. But such comrades as we surely are will not mind sharing. Fortunately I just returned from a trading trip to Port Newolf. Those packs in the corner is filled with the best Slickers around—and there’s plenty for all!”
Helga soon learned that Slickers were the largest oysters she had ever seen. Their thick rough shells—the size of small plate—were highly prized for the morsels of tender, delicious flesh inside. Despite their rough appearance, Slicker shells popped open easily and soon the band was popping Slicker shells open and greedily “slicking down” the sweet, slimy meat with abandon.
As the Slicker feast progressed, Borallt showed his guests his preferred means of discarding Slicker shells. With but a little practice, they learned how to toss a Slicker shell a distance across the cave, bounce it off a particular spot of wall, and have the shell go zinging off into the ravine below. Clink-clink-clink. Clink-clink-clink. If the Slicker meat itself were not so delicious, the sheer sport of scattering the shells would be sufficient to make the oysters a treat.
Gradually, the warmth of the fire, the sharp taste of the Wheeze, and the fullness of their bellies brought quiet to the tired band of travelers. After they talked, joked, and cursed the weather, Helga and Roolo questioned their Coyote host about his solitary life. They learned he survived by trapping snakes and selling bales of snake skins to traders in Port Newolf. When they began to inquire about the best way to get through Dismal Pass without risking capture by the Wrackshees, he chuckled again.
“He-He-He...I know another way,” Borallt said as he listened to their urgent queries. “You dare not go through Dismal Pass,” he continued. “I came through there this very morning and the grass on either side of the road had been trampled to muddy pulp. The ashes of many cook fires and the scooped out skins of roasted lizards were everywhere. That means Wrackshees—lots of them.” The old Coyote chuckled again. “He-He-He...You go through Dismal Pass, you’ll be a Wrackshee slave...He-He-He!”
Helga was puzzled. How could Borallt laugh about such bad news? But every time she or Roolo tried to ask him a question, he would only chuckle and mutter that he “knew another way.” It made Helga restless.
“Soon it’s going to be cold, brutally cold, in the Pass,” Borallt said at last. “That cold rain that your seabeasts suffered through—that was the lucky part. The Needle Rain is coming. The cold rain just keeps getting colder and raining harder and harder, until the rain freezes into tiny shards of ice. Call it snow if you want—but it’s sharp enough to draw blood. I'll make you a promise that the Wrackshees will be sitting warm in their camp in the High Boulders. That’s the only sheltered campsite where they can sit out a Needle Rain storm and still control the main passage on the road. They’ll sit there in their tents, tight and warm ’till the storm blows out. No beast will be able to get past them—and no beast is likely to try during the storm—but they won’t be moving either. He-He-He...”
“We can’t just sit here!” Helga said with frustration. “I don’t care how long the Wrackshees sit warm in their tents. I want us to move!”
“He-He-He...” the Coyote chuckled again, sipping the first mug of another batch of Plenty Toot Wheeze he had been stirring. “He-He-He...well, well...so you think I should rush right out and show you the way, do you?” Slowly taking another sip of his Wheeze, Borallt stood up and went to the rear of the cave where the flickering firelight gave way to deepening shadows.
“Christer! Hey-lo! Christer! Now!” Borallt called out into the darkness at the rear of the cave.
“Unless I miss my guess that would be your way out,” he said, returning to his seat by the fire. With a slight bow as he approached the group, a tall, slender Wood Cow, in dirty and worn barkskins, came out of the darkness and dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged near Borallt. The young Wood Cow, about Helga’s age, gave a surprised glace at Helga, as he sat down. He seemed to be as astonished as was Helga herself to find another Wood Cow clan in such a place, so far removed from the Wood Cow homeland!